victory_road | WHO'S THAT POKEMON?

If I didn't have this creepy little demon at my back [He means Orin] always aware of people, I'd be sittin' where I could face the door too. I know what watchin' your back is like. Been there for a good hunk o' my life.

[He takes a drink.]

From some asshole or another. Or from what I was, so people wouldn't give me hell over it.

What are you lookin' out for?

[ She looks at Orin again, Lute not visible at the table, having hunkered down at her feet. He's alert too, but he makes himself smaller when indoors, both his horn and the reputation of Absols lending a certain delicacy to interactions. Unearned as the reputation may be, it's still present and enough to merit startled looks and suspicious glances.

She takes another drink. When she sets her glass down, hand curling loosely around it, she settles on an answer. ]

Most recently back home, those who resented Military Police presences or authority in places they felt were meant for themselves.

[ The implication being the organised underworld of crime, rather than just citizens feeling the usual mixture of condescending and resentful that led to altercations with drunks and the mob-minded. ]

Here? Nothing. I suppose I could pretend to be paranoid about the Rockets, or any of the small criminal organisations that exist, but why bother? No one's planning to shoot me in the chest and dump my body in lime, so things are looking calm even if someone's idiotic enough to think to make off with any part of my team.

Sounds like you're a little bit jaded on the idealism that usually comes with police work, from everything you've said.

[He takes another drink of his beer.]

That's good though. Means you won't be played for a fool, and you won't get yourself killed by someone tryin' to show off.

[He's not too worried about the Rockets, so he just chuckles at that in that wry gravel of his. Yeah, even the part about being shot and obliterated. He's spent so long running from the Man with the Golden Gun he gets it. Only Shin Malphur wouldn't leave anything behind. The last guy he shot ended up a smear of soot against rock.]

[Drifter's gotten good at being the last man in the room, either through strategy or by murdering everyone else in it that's pulled a gun.]

[ Certainly, being part of a corrupt, bribery ridden police force in a military other than the one she'd first been enlisted into? What idealism is she supposed to hold onto at that point? She takes another sip of alcohol, savouring the flavour. She'll need to take a drink from a different part of the lip in order to get salt next time.

Lute leans against her lower leg, and she leans sideways to run her fingers through his fur. ]

Doesn't prevent people from trying.

[ She says dryly, because really, if she didn't have her healing factor and ridiculous regen as the monster she'd been made into, she would be dead. Granted, she also played things dangerous because she knew she could survive what should kill her.

Recklessness is measured in various ways. She chooses to believe her calculated risks paid off, until letting Armin live didn't. Alas. ]

[Right now Drifter has access to his ridiculous regen. Were he aware, he'd be more inclined to point it out to her. As it is, he's just happy that there are some doctrines that she didn't buy into.]

[If he knew, though, all the weight of her story? He'd slowly be trying to convince her to keep that power for herself. Not to be a big damn hero for anyone, her side or theirs.]

'Tryin'. Let 'em keep tryin'. Let 'em keep failin'.

[He leans forward, both hands around his beer.]

Probably not what people are gonna want to hear here, an' I'd prefer it be kept between us, but if somebody did try it on you? I wouldn't suffer them another chance to try. [He figures he could trust her enough with that opinion, and the vague implication that's how he's dealt with it in the past. He's never been real forgiving of people that tried to kill him.]

[ Meanwhile she'd smile and look as sardonic as ever: she has no interest in using her power for anything but seeing her father again. Then she'll die, like she always knew she would: either under the teeth of her own nation, or under the aggressions of a nation that doesn't want to submit to the great and powerful Marley.

What he says when he leans forward actually pulls the ghost of a smile out of her. ]

Generally speaking, isn't that the wisest idea?

[ Her hands aren't clean, and while she doesn't derive any sense of pleasure out of it, killing those intent on killing her? Is... natural, to an extent. Scaring them off if it isn't personal is another option, but not always an option.

Annie would prefer a world like here, where killing isn't necessary. But she wasn't raised in that kind of world. She's just luckier in having few personal enemies, and a world full of impersonal ones. #joy

There's no judgment, at least. She taps a finger against her glass and lifts her shoulders in a small shrug, as if to say, that's the way things can go. ]

The ones who really want you dead don't stop just because you say please.

Some people don't see it that way. Live and let live, even if the other party ain't particular to that mindset. Mine is more, "You do you." Now, if 'You do you' ends up in them tryin' to do me? Well, I'll do what I gotta do.

[And he's been in a lot of gunfights. He's also stepped out of the way of a lot of gunfights and watched two sides kill each other off in a magnificent fit of stupidity before finishing off the job with whoever was left.]

[It could be cowardly, it could be conserving energy. But it hardly matters when he comes out the one still alive, and not murdered as a result of someone else's wild hair up their ass.]

But I'm ashamed to admit... it's pretty nice not havin' to worry about a gunfight.

[ Annie had to be beyond the matter of not meeting force with force. She will never like killing, and not seek out situations where she can kill, but she sees it as being part of the brutal reality of the world.

Of so many worlds.

She's noncommittal to what he says, simply listening, until that last part: ]

Are you just saying that, or are you wasting energy on shame over something that should be common sense?

[ Asked with a lifted eyebrow. Not having people go gun happy, kill happy, or in any way murder happy is one less thing to worry about, even if the worry doesn't just waltz right on out of her head. ]

Genuinely. Not because of your standard guilt, because I come from a world where some unique people can't die and a lot of the best competitions involve fatal shoot-outs. Because death doesn't stick unless you kill someone in a very particular way.

I know a few people who know how to take out someone like that permanently. I'd love to see him here. He'd be useless and he would hate that.

[He'd out Drifter as going by a name that's... well... Drifter has no real name, just what he calls himself at any given moment. But it would be worth it to watch the guy scramble for useless purchase.]

[He'd maybe even start calling himself 'Dredgen' just to spite him. He's enough of a shit to pull that stunt.]

[ She sips her alcohol, closing her eyes. ]

Sounds like a world filled with Titans who have functioning brains.

[ Death not sticking without killing in specific ways? Check. Super-check. Pure Titans will not die at all until the nape of the neck is properly severed, cutting through whatever exists of the human being resting inside. ]

I can imagine for him this whole world would be a strange kind of torture.

[ She looks vaguely amused. ]

I think functioning brains could be debatable, given the decisions some of 'em make... I'm gonna trust you to keep a secret. Probably not much of one. You seem pretty good at doin' the math.

[And he's been more open with her than most people.]

[He gets up and goes over to his bar, coming back to the table and settling down. He holds up a steak knife with one hand, glances one way, looks the other, makes sure that the stragglers inside are in their own little worlds.]

[Then he slowly lowers his hand onto it with a heavy grimace. Both Fortune and Orin look at him in surprise. But when he pulls his hand back up, it heals quickly.]

[ One plus one equals: the hard to kill people, of which he's one, do have healing factors as intense as certain aspects of Titans. She watches the whole demonstration without blinking, knowing the pain of knives going through skin, to the point where he pulls his hand up off the knife again, and it heals.

Now, he could have aimed between bones and ligaments, or he could have not. That's an aspect of healing she wonders about: if they did the same to her, it wouldn't matter what was injured, all of it would repair. Only with a little heat involved, which is why she holds out her hand to him, looking at his hand, and asks: ]

May I.

[He aimed between, but less because he can't heal- he can heal there just fine -it's just less of an inconvenience to push through.]

[He gives her the knife, assuming she wants to see if it's real. Which would be justifiable with Drifter's frequent slight of hand. No one would be too out of line to assume he'd pulled a stunt, he even used to use it for that back when he pretended to be a human all the time.]

Have at it.

[ She takes the knife, passing it to her nondominant hand in order to test the blade by pressing it down against the table's surface, but she doesn't watch: she's still looking at him, and still has her other hand extended. Pointedly, her eyes drop to his hand, flick up to his face, then back to his hand.

What she's really curious about is the how's of his healing, because she didn't think this was a set up in particular for a sleight of hand (hah) display. ]

[He offers his hand over, finally, and there's no sign of it being injured.]

[Then splays his fingers broadly.]

You can do what you want.

Though I usually avoid showing off my weak spot for obvious reasons. [It's kind of a bitch anyway.]

[ There's a dismissive sort of snort she gives at that statement, because oh, does she know. Still, after setting down the knife, she holds his hand and runs her fingers over where the wound would have been, turning her hand over to press the back of her palm against his hand. Temperature check. There's nothing off, and to her, that is far more fascinating. She's never seen anyone else's healing factor in play before. ]

Handles limb or digit regeneration too? Or do you need the original bits to piece everything back together?

[ She's not holding the knife so probably is not asking out of interest of checking this out! But it's a very specific question. Perhaps too specific. ]

Sister, you could burn me down to ash and I'd come back. I just don't let that happen with nobody.

[And it means that's when his weak spot comes out of hiding.]

Sometimes if you're poisoned or sick though, it'll just linger an' eat away at you and there's no comin' back until you're dead. The worst part is comin' back from starvin'. That happened to me a bunch of times durin' the dark ages. [He takes a long drink of his beer, like he's reminding himself it's available.] You get brought back with an empty stomach. I vowed to never let that happen to me again.

[ All of that's properly horrifying, and she grimaces, shaking her head. ]

I could only imagine. Living through starvation is terrible enough. Having to die of it and come back still starving...

[ No thanks. Times may have been tough right after they brought the third Wall down, with not enough food, rampant starvation in the refugee camps, and the ultimate crown-supported solution of sending hundreds of thousands of people to their deaths being consumed by Titans... but living in that state perpetually?

No thanks. There was more than one benefit to joining the military, all things told. ]

How does a mind even cope with all of that?

[ A question also for herself, to a lesser degree. Hey, for once, she's not the weirdest regenerator in the room! ]

Well, in my case? You pretend to be normal for a very long time. And when that stops working and you can't bring yourself to be an idealist? You make all the wrong kinds of friends. When you figure out the other guys are just as full of themselves, you just sort of do whatever comes to mind first.

[Drifter admits, though, he might be a little out of his mind.]

I make a lot of stuff. That's why I'm good at takin' whatever I find and sorta patchin' it together into somethin' useable. Make a lotta weapons out of new parts but add old style Dark Ages perks. Build ships outa what I find.

I've seen other Lightbearers do stuff like jump off skyscrapers for the fun of it over an' over though. They're more than happy to shoot each other over games. Hey, they can do what they like, I just don't like nobody gettin' the drop on me and I dare not give 'em the chance to do it.

[He doesn't give them the chance.]

I reckon a lot of us go a little bit nuts. But I just wanna be an honest businessman an' keep livin' as comfortably as possible. Hell, and for that I don't even need a mansion. I got a room in a place out back of the bar? And it's just a cot and a bookshelf and a small bathroom. But I got a hotplate and a kettle an' easy access to food. That's high livin' to me.

But uh... gonna be honest. I was a little sad we couldn't die here like normal folks. Not that I'm eager to let just anything to make me kick off, but it'd have been nice to have the option. [In the unlikely event things hurt that much.]

... There's about one way people die here, generally speaking.

[ One hand is back to touching the knife as she thinks, having listened quietly to what he's saying. Understanding to some degree the kindness of knowing there are endings. She's known her own for years, if not the specifics in how she'd meet that ending. Living under time limits lends a certain fatalism to all she does. ]

Old age. Maybe if you manage to stick around long enough, you'll age into a peaceful grave.

[ It's the best ending any of them could ask for, isn't it? She's holding the knife now, passing it off to her non-dominant hand as she casually observes the room. No one's paying attention to their corner, all involved in their own heads, their chattering partners, or the bottom of their drinks.

She lays her dominant hand flat on the table. With casual brutality, she drives the point of the knife down between the bones of her hand, feeling it pierce through her skin and out again through her palm. There's a thud that accompanies it, but the bleary attention the sound draws drifts away again as she picks up her drink, finishing it off, and setting it back down with an almost matching thunk.

That cut was more than enough to activate her transformation if she had a particular death wish for the people around her. Not him: he'd survive. Everyone else here wouldn't. But she doesn't, staying all of five feet tall and seemingly unaffected by the wisp of steam that lazily curls out around the blade where it pierces her skin. She pulls it out after she's finished her drink, prying the handle back to dislodge the point, drops of blood steaming off it as she pulls the knife free.

Her hand is already healing as the knife withdraws. That hint of steam, and a heat he may or may not be sensitive to: her hand is fever-hot right now. ]

It's the one theory no one's tested out. Since the longest anyone has been here is ten years... and they weren't of advanced age.

[He wonders if he'd get bored by this place by then? Maybe. Spending a whole life here with just monster fights? But it might be fine if that whole life was spent not worrying about being shot in the back or fending off a certain breed of Lightbearer.]

[But then he sees her take the knife and try the move herself. It's like she boils to heal, the force repairing her molten and malleable. He can still ache and burn, but that's exactly what leads him to put his fingers over her hand, settling them around the wound so he can see if it's as hot as it looks.]

[He 'hoos' softly, before lifting his hand to watch it heal the rest of the way.] Sister, you run a temperature when you do that. [Which of course she probably knows, but this is a man that's admitted he's been reduced to cinders and came back from it.]

Think I'll top that off for you. I'll be right back.

[He grins wryly at her as he takes her glass, winking once as he gets up. This is definitely going to stay between them. Honestly, it's just good to meet someone that's a freak like him, and doesn't seem to think of themselves as a Big Damn Hero. He's got questions, of course, but who isn't glad to see more like-minded weirdness.]

[ She almost twitches her hand away from his when he touches the back of it, where the knife had punctured. It has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with guarding herself against everyone and everything. There isn't positive contact in her world, and while that's been changing in this one, it's still a long ingrained response. ]

Worse, when regeneration's required.

[ Which doesn't mention any of the rest: how transformations are intense explosions of light and heat and energy, how she can protect or destroy individuals around her in that moment. Everything about Titans runs hot, and everything about Titan shifters relying on their Titan aspect runs just as hot.

They're both odd ducks, and she tips her head to acknowledge the top off without responding to the wink. He's mostly refreshing because not only does he have powers that happen to be in certain lights fairly similar, but he doesn't talk about saving worlds or hoping to change whole civilizations or stating how sacred life is, while hypocritically consigning others to death without a thought.

So basically, he's shady. And shady is something easier for her to understand and get along with. Shady is not the same as bad. She's... pretty sure Krieg counts as shady, too. He's not mentally all there, and his world is absolutely insane. He's also one of the easiest people for her to get on with here.

So it goes. She sets the knife to the side and sits back, looking relaxed, while she watches the room. She does not read as open to conversation, partly habit, partly her resting uninterested face. ]

[He puts a new drink in front of her when he comes back, a repeat of her last, but this time also with a water. Not just to clear her head if she needs, but so she can dampen her napkin if necessary and clean off. He made sure his own were washed back at the sink. No sign that anything untoward happened.]

"Worse" or "better"? Seems like it's a good way to keep people's hands off you while you right yourself.

[He sits again, and despite that chronically uninterested look (that really does seem to be the set to her face), he pries.]

So I'm guessin' this probably goes a length beyond just healin'.

[There's always more to it. No power comes for free, too. Some shitty burden tags along, especially for the most useful stuff.]

[ She breathes out in a soft huff, taking the water and sipping from it; her hand is clear of blood, but the table? Ah, that she daubs up with her napkin, taking care of it without much obvious effort. Any blood on her skin had been minimal enough to burn off in the process: it's hard saying to what degree a sudden or high enough bloodflow would mean staining, but it was usually staining to clothing... in copious amounts. ]

Worse. It's exhausting, it's not subtle, and there's nothing easy about watching a limb regenerate little by little, bone to muscle to flesh.

[ It's not exactly in that order, but it does more or less go in segments growing outward. It's hard to even describe what it feels like. She's never tried, and never really had to deal with significant limb regeneration to try.

She sips at the water again, then sets it down to trade for the alcohol. Takes a sip of that, and glances around the room. Not for anything in particular, for all she's profiling the people in here; her thoughts are such that she doesn't want to stay fully still, fully focused. ]

It's weaponising members of a lineage. My time limit's coming up fast, but it's the trade-off for deciding to use child soldiers instead of adults. They all age too fast, but if we're young enough... aren't we supposed to believe?

[ It's nothing she should be talking about, to protect a handful of people here, but it's... equivalent, in a way. A relief, in its own way, to acknowledge what only one other person knows.

My time limit's coming up fast. Two years, and back home, she'd be dead. Older, too, if she gets out of the crystal before she dies, if time catches up, if the curse of the "honour" of being a Warrior hits home. ]

Edited 2019-07-07 05:57 (UTC)

Only a couple of years, huh?

[That is tragic. Here she is, barely even got to enjoy her life, and she's not getting much of a chance with it at all. Even her living years are focused on something she shouldn't have any part in.]

I've met lots of people I wish I could given some o' my years to. To be honest, I've been kickin' around.... shit... Around a full millennia now. I was around when it all fell apart. Keep seein' all these attempts to put it back together again get kicked in the teeth. I didn't want no part of it nomore.

[Then decisively, he plants his hands on the table.] You know what? I ain't had anything fuckin' normal in centuries, an' you got a split hair of time left. So what we oughta do is start gettin' together on occasion and makin' sure one of us does somethin' we've missed out on. How does that sound?

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lyingheart - 2019-07-07 23:02 (UTC) - Expand

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